


Breakfast on the Bus

by agentsofsunnydale (Theblueeyedvampire)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode: s01e07 The Hub, Gen, Team Bonding, Team Bus - Freeform, Team as Family, The Great British Baking Show, on the bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theblueeyedvampire/pseuds/agentsofsunnydale
Summary: Ward thought he was simply making breakfast. Little did he know that it would lead to a baking lesson as a team-bonding exercise for Skye.





	Breakfast on the Bus

**Author's Note:**

> An Agents of SHIELD fanfic – set after season 1, episode 7: The Hub. Just a bit of domestic fluff for the original team, before people turned out to be Hydra or part alien or any of that. Hints of playful Skye/Ward, innocent and adorable Fitz/Simmons, and not-so-subtle Coulson/May. I stole some familiar lyrics from Beauty and the Beast, and the scones recipe/procedure is from Mary Berry’s website. Nothing belongs to me except the idea to combine these words in this order. Beta-read by EllieRose101 (thank you!)

“I finally get it,” Skye said, nodding at the impressive spread over the counter space of the Bus’s kitchen… or technically, galley.

“Get what?” Grant asked distractedly. His chief objective at the moment was flipping his omelet, which he managed with precision even though it filled the entire pan.

“Why you’re roughly the size of a barge,” she answered with a smirk. Reaching across the countertop, she snagged a strawberry from the pile he had washed and munched it smugly.

“What?”

“Oh, come on! Does that seriously not ring any bells?” She began to sing, trying not to laugh through the lyrics.  “No one fights like Grant Ward, douses lights like Grant Ward.”

“What does that song have to do with…” He glanced from the snickering hacker to his breakfast, his plate already laid with hashbrowns, four strips of bacon, a piece of ham the size of his fist, and the berries. “Oh. Got it.”

“When you were a lad you ate four dozen eggs—”

“I got it now,” he reiterated, interrupting her continued singing, his attention redirected to rescuing his omelet from the burner before it began to brown. “You’re comparing me to a Disney villain just because I like to eat a balanced breakfast.”

“If by ‘balanced breakfast’ you mean enough food to feed a small army, then yeah.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Actually, no, since I’m stuck with this thing.” She raised her arm, jingling the bracelet that restricted and monitored her online activity.

“Well, since you don’t seem to mind helping yourself to my breakfast…” He scooted his plate and the remaining strawberries out of Skye’s reach, “maybe I ought to make one of my famous omelets for  _ you _ , let you see what all the fuss is about.”

“Famous?” She lifted a skeptical brow, choosing not to overthink the nice offer. “Really? According to who, big shot? Is there, what, a super-spy version of the Great British Baking Show?”

Simmons appeared in the galley entryway at that moment, Fitz right behind her, as though she had been summoned by the mention of the television series from her homeland.

“Oh! You watch the Great British Bake Off, Skye?” she asked cheerfully. “Isn’t it just delightful? None of that cutthroat competitive nonsense common to American cooking shows.”

“Yes, Jemma, we all know how much you love the Bake Off,” Fitz sighed, as though he had lost many a debate on the subject.

“Totally. It’s only the best reality show over,” Skye agreed. “Apparently Ward is some kind of cooking superstar.” She ignored the exasperated look that her S.O. gave her and grinned as Simmons and Fitz squished up beside her at the galley counter.

“Of course he is,” mumbled Fitz in a very small voice, which Ward clearly heard since he rolled his eyes while transferring his omelet to his plate. “Mr. Good-at-Everything.”

“I am  _ not _ a cooking superstar. I just like making omelets, that’s it.”

“ _ Enormous _ omelets. Good Lord, how many eggs is that?” Simmons asked, watching the process intently.

Skye began giggling, and Ward scowled.

“You’re earning yourself a lot more pull-ups,” he warned, facing off against the three younger agents. “So… are you just going to watch me eat or what?”

“How well is that thing stocked?” Skye asked, circling the island and tapping the door of the massive fridge. “I would have thought spy life meant living off Cliff Bars, or the more cardboard versions of Cliff Bars.”

“Yeah, the  _ odorless _ kind,” said Fitz petulantly as Ward carried his plate to the smaller counter against the exterior wall and began to chow down on his meal.

“Oh no, we have a fully functioning kitchen here,” said Simmons, eagerly joining Skye. “We don’t have access to the freshest of ingredients, but we certainly get by and can restock whenever we land. Do you like cooking?”

“There wasn’t much I could do on a hot plate in my van,” Skye shrugged. “Always wanted to learn.”

“Well, now’s the perfect opportunity,” Simmons beamed. She opened up the pantry shelves and began pulling out ingredients while Skye watched with curiosity. “Get the butter, would you please?”

“Sure thing.”

Turning back to the vault-like fridge, Skye tugged at the door and managed to get it open after the second pull. Her eyes widened at the sheer volume inside, the shelves and drawers packed neatly with labeled food. “Uh… butter is where?”

“Should be in the door,” said Simmons. “And the eggs and milk, please. Honestly, what have you been eating while you’ve been here the last few weeks?”

“Lots and lots of pretzels. To be honest, I didn’t know there was a kitchen. I thought you all lived off the snacks in the bar.”

Simmons tsked softly, replaced a few of the ingredients she had picked out, and reached over to set the oven to preheat to 425F.

“We’ll start with something simple then. Just some scones.”

“Scones,” Skye nodded. “Sure. I can do scones. At least I know what they’re supposed to look like… I think. What’s first?”

“We need to process the flour and baking powder with the butter,” Simmons recited, one hand lifted as though she was checking off a list in her head. “Once it’s crumbly, we add sugar. Be sure to wash your hands first. Fitz, you’ll help, won’t you?”

“Clearly you’re going to make me, so I best accept it.” He pushed up his sleeves, not eager to get flour on his sweater. “I’ll find the baking trays.”

“Excellent.”

All three of them queued up at the sink to wash their hands, so they didn’t see the growing smirk on Ward’s face. Fitz handed a bowl to Skye, who held it still while Simmons measured the appropriate quantities of flour and baking powder, then popped the butter in the microwave for a few seconds to soften it. She cut off a dollop into the bowl and glanced at Skye expectantly.

“What now?” Skye gave the biochemist a quizzical look.

“You process it,” said Simmons. She wiggled her fingertips. “Blend it up.”

“Oh. You meant by hand.”

Biting her lip, Skye adjusted her rolled-up sleeves and reached into the bowl, crumbling the flour with the butter until it formed tiny breadcrumb-like balls. Despite being careful, she soon had white powder up to her elbows, as well as the front of her shirt.

“Great. This isn’t some sort of SHIELD team hazing thing, is it?”

“Not at all. Whatever gave you that impression?” said Simmons, sounding shocked.

“The smug look on his face,” Skye answered with a nod at Ward.

“Don’t mind me, just eating the omelet you were quick to criticize.”

“Is it too late to take it back?”

“Can’t give up now,” said Fitz. “We’ve barely started. Here’s the sugar.”

Before Skye could stop him, he poured the sugar into her bowl, further dusting her with white residue.

“Thanks a lot, genius.”

“Careful, Fitz,” Simmons chided gently, readying a mixture of eggs and milk to add to the dry ingredients. “I measured that exactly. How much did you lose?”

“Just a smidge,” he whinged. “Trying to help, so don’t gang up on me. And be careful not to overwork the dough.” That comment earned raised eyebrows from both girls. “What? I paid a bit of attention to the Bake Off. Only a  _ bit _ , mind.”

“Oh, Fitz,” said Simmons adoringly.

“Only a  _ bit _ ,” he repeated, embarrassed.

“Guys, caught in the middle here,” said Skye, waiting somewhat nervously for the next step in Simmons’s procedure. She wasn’t used to getting her hands dirty, at least not quite so literally. “And hang on, what does ‘overwork the dough’ mean? I thought you said this was simple.”

“It is,” said Simmons. “The simplest in the book, really.”

“So, you’re saying if I screw this up, I should stick with eating pretzels and cheese sticks?”

“Could always mooch off of Ward,” Fitz suggested.

“I  _ offered _ , so it wouldn’t be mooching…” Ward began to say, before realizing from the slight flush on Skye’s face that she hadn’t exactly planned on sharing with the other two the fact that he had been willing to make her breakfast. In the awkward silence that followed, he turned back to his plate and took another large bite of omelet.

With the milk and eggs now added to the floury mixture, Skye blended by hand until it seemed to all look the same, a wet dough clinging to her fingers.

“Please tell me it’s supposed to look like this.”

“Yes, splendid,” Simmons nodded. “Since we don’t appear to have a cutter, this glass will do. Put a pinch of flour on the counter and roll the dough out to half an inch thick.”

“Are we so screwed if Coulson sees the mess we’re making?”

“Not if we tidy up before then,” said Simmons assuredly. “Not to mention the delicious scones we’ll have at that point.”

“You sound pretty confident that I won’t mess this up.”

Once the counter surface was sprinkled with flour, Skye flattened the dough as best she could, took the glass from Simmons, and started stamping out circles of dough. Fitz was at the ready with the greased baking trays, and Simmons topped them off with a brushing of egg as a glaze. After two rounds of rolling and stamping, they fit nine scone discs onto each of the two trays.

“Don’t they look darling?” said Simmons excitedly as Skye slid the two trays into the oven.

“I guess. They’re scones, not gingerbread men,” she shrugged, closing the oven door and realizing that her flour-coated hands had left prints on the handle. “Great.”

Simmons didn’t seem put off by her lack of enthusiasm or the increasing messiness of the galley.

“Fitz, set a timer for ten minutes, then we’ll check to see how golden they are. Now, if only we have some strawberry jam—”

“What’s going on here? What happened to my kitchen?”

Skye, Simmons, and Fitz jumped at the sound of Agent Coulson’s voice right behind them. He was holding two empty coffee mugs and staring from the flour-covered countertops to Skye well dusted with flour, sugar, and dough residue on her hands.

“Sir… we’re sorry you had to see this.” Simmons was the first to recover from the shock of his entry. “We’ll tidy up straightaway.”

“On the up side, we’ll have scones in a jif,” said Fitz. “Skye and Simmons did most of the leg work.”

“I can see that,” said Coulson. He maneuvered between them to the coffeemaker tucked into the corner, where it had escaped the flour dusting. “Anyone seen May?”

“In the cockpit, sir,” Ward reported. By now his plate was empty, but he seemed in no hurry to stop watching the activity of the younger agents and their attempts at baking.

“Great. Carry on.”

And without another word, Coulson smiled at them all and carried the two coffees out of the galley toward the front of the Bus.

“Well… he seemed surprisingly okay with our mess,” said Skye once he was out of sight.

“I suspect he has other things on his mind,” Ward shrugged.

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Simmons, wetting a paper towel and starting to clean the countertop.

In answer, Ward nodded in the direction of the cockpit to which Coulson had departed. Skye, Simmons, and Fitz stared at him for several silent seconds before it dawned on them what he could be suggesting.

“Nuh-uh. No way,” scoffed Skye, grinning while she tried to pat flour off her shirt. The idea of fun-loving, car-restoring A.C. having the hots for uber-stoic May seemed crazy… but crazy enough to be possible.

“They do have a history,” shrugged Fitz. “I’ve heard him mention it.”

“It’s conceivable, I suppose,” Simmons shrugged. “But high level agents are discouraged from attachments.”

“What, like the Jedi?” asked Skye. “Emotions will cloud your judgment. That sort of thing?”

“Emotions always cloud judgment,” Ward answered. He nudged between the three of them to reach the sink and clean off his plate and silverware. “That’s why we learn to hide them, suppress them, internalize them.”

“Which only works until you’ve bottled so much inside that you explode,” Skye pointed out. “What happens then?”

“Don’t know. I’ll let you know when I find out.”

He headed off for the cargo level, presumably to workout until the baking experiment was over. Skye, Simmons, and Fitz waited, hovering around the oven as though nervous that some calamity would befall their experiment if they didn’t keep a close watch. Coulson reemerged, refilled the two mugs of coffee in near-silence, and then left for the cockpit once more, which caused Skye and Simmons to look at one another and start giggling.

“What? What are you two laughing about?” demanded Fitz.

“I’ll explain when you’re older,” said Simmons sweetly.

“I’m the same age as you, Jemma.”

“You saw that, right?” Skye asked, whispering for fear that May and Coulson could hear her through the cockpit door. “His tie was  _ definitely _ not straight, and it was straight before.”

“We must have been seeing things,” said Simmons.

“The  _ same _ thing, which means we were  _ actually _ seeing it.”

The timer went off at that moment, and the three of them rushed back over to turn on the oven light and inspect the scones.

“Well risen and golden,” Simmons assessed. “They’re ready.”

Armed with oven mitts, Skye pulled out the two trays. The scones were slightly uneven from the dough’s varying thickness, but aside from that, she thought they were a complete success.

“So, cooking mission accomplished? I actually baked something?”

“Have to taste test to make sure,” said Fitz. He rustled in the fridge for a few moments and emerged with strawberry preserves and cream cheese.

“Fitz, they need to cool first,” Simmons protested, but Skye and Fitz were already cutting into the hot scones and smearing preserves on them.

Slightly anxious, Skye took the first bite.

“Success?” asked Simmons, even as Fitz popped half a scone into his mouth as well.

Still chewing, Skye nodded cheerfully.

“Oh good.” Simmons sounded deeply relieved. “For one moment there, I was afraid I had forgotten something in the recipe.”

“No, you were great.” Skye almost skipped over to the intercom in the wall and tapped a few commands. “Good morning, SHIELD 6-1-6,” she said into the receiver, her voice carrying throughout the Bus. “This is your friendly invitation to come and get breakfast, courtesy of yours truly.”

“And us!” Fitz called in her direction. “We helped too.”

“And Fitz-Simmons,” Skye amended before turning off the intercom.

Coulson and May appeared first, since the cockpit was right off the galley. Skye could have sworn his tie was once again straightened out, and May looked immaculate as ever… so maybe Ward was wrong in his suspicions. Maybe. But then she witnessed Coulson handing a scone to May, whose mouth quirked with just a hint of a smile, so maybe he was right after all. The two of them ate, giving Skye appreciative nods of thanks, plus a thumbs-up from Coulson.

Ward reentered from downstairs, his face and clothes slightly sweaty from his workout.

“So, you managed not to poison us all?” he asked, smirking as he picked a scone off the tray.

“Ha, ha, you’re hilarious,” Skye dead-panned. She scooted the jar of strawberry preserves in his direction. “Did you burn off enough calories to have room for seconds?”

“That wasn’t the point of my workout.”

“Again, need I mention you’re roughly the size of a barge?” she smirked.

“No, oddly enough, it’s still not funny.”

“It totally is. Do you use antlers in all your decorating?”

“Do you want me to try a scone or not?”

“Sorry, knock yourself out,” she encouraged.

As she watched, Ward slathered a generous spoonful of jam in the middle of his scone, folded it together like a sandwich, and took a messy bite.

“Not bad.”

“You, uh… got a bit there,” grinned Skye, tapping the corner of her own mouth to point out where the preserves had leaked onto his lips.  


“Good work, Skye, Fitz-Simmons,” said Coulson, halfway through his own scone. “You know, we should cook together more often, since we have so much air time. It makes for a nice group bonding activity.”

“Yeah, I guess one good thing came out of being grounded from the Internet,” said Skye. “With a little help from the dream team, I passed my first signature challenge of the Great SHIELD Baking Show.”

The End  


**Author's Note:**

> End notes: In one of Ward’s flashbacks in S 1 Ep 21:Ragtag, teenage survivalist Ward does indeed have antlers as part of his decorating. I thought that should be noted.


End file.
